Sometimes I see a copy of a book I own, and stare at it for a moment, both comforted and lost. I rarely take them out – it’s like meeting someone who is no longer in love with you. Slide one from the shelf in greeting, turn a few pages, notice a new jacket and how age and distance have


& occasionally I find one of your books in there. Once at some bright evening I watched a quiet moth leave through an open sash window, into a night of rain and streetlight, unseen by anyone but you